


This Side of Paradise

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gender or Sex Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fun with Mulder and Scully. Cowritten with Ryo Sen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Side of Paradise

I wake up all of the sudden as if out of a bad dream and into a much

worse one. Someone’s hand is resting on my thigh. It’s a male hand. I  
open my eyes. Dear God, it’s Mulder’s hand.

What is Mulder’s hand doing on my thigh? I frantically race through the  
events that happened last night– I went home, ate dinner, watched a bad  
TV movie, read a little, and went to bed. A boring Friday night. But  
Mulder was not involved for one minute in this scenario. My memory of  
events also doesn’t explain why I have a blistering hangover and the  
oddest feelings running through my body. But first things first, Mulder  
doesn’t have any right to have his hand on my thigh so casually, like I  
was prop–

What the hell? What the hell? I moved to brush his hand off my thigh,  
but it’s his hand that moves. I blink a few times. Something’s  
definitely not right here. I try looking at my thigh. It’s a little  
hairy for mine. I trace Mulder’s hand up to the shoulder. It’s attached  
to me.

Something is very, very wrong here. From all evidence, I appear to be a  
white male, mid-thirties, with a hangover. In fact, a very specific  
white male, by the name of Fox William Mulder, when last night I very  
clearly remember being a very specific white female named Dana Katherine  
Scully. I stand. I look around. I look down.

Okay. I’ve got my partner’s hangover and my partner’s morning hard-on.  
This really, really sucks. My mouth– his mouth– tastes like an open  
sewer. And he’s dirty and unshaven– where the hell did he go last  
night?

“Dammit, what’s going on?” I ask aloud. Yep, that’s Mulder’s voice.  
Geez, how do men handle this– okay, Dana, let’s think. What’s really  
unappealing to you? Got it– Frohike wearing a thong. A fake fur  
thong. Yikes. Okay, that helps.

Mulder smells bad. He needs a shower, a shave, and jeez, let’s brush his  
teeth here. Yes, first things first, Mulder has hellacious morning  
breath, and gee, what a way to discover it. Firsthand.

Then the thought comes to me: where the hell is my body, and who’s  
wearing it for me? And seconds later, the logical answer, ding ding  
ding– Mulder. This gives me quite a scare– the thought of Mr. Mulder  
having  
free rein over my body is not–

Oh. Oh man. I just realized– heh. Heh heh heh. It’s that time of the  
month. Mulder’s going to have to deal with– I double over and just  
start laughing my ass off. This is a dreadfully unfunny situation,  
but… Mulder. With cramps. Mulder. Dealing with tampons. Mulder. On the  
rag.

Okay, so maybe there is one small plus to this. I try to stop grinning  
as I go for the toothbrush, but I can’t help it. Okay, plus two– I can  
put this lovely male specimen into some decent clothes, without any help  
from  
his lovely male fashion sense.

************

The bright light eventually breaks through an odd dream involving tic  
tacs and teacups to wake me. Without opening my eyes, I flip over in  
the bed, burrowing my face into the pillow.

The bed?

I jump to full consciousness. I don’t sleep in a bed. Okay, the odds are  
that I’m in someone else’s. The sixty-thousand dollar question is: Whose  
bed?

Shit.

My senses report no indication of a bedmate. Reluctantly, I peel my  
eyes open only to find my view oddly obscured by some sort of reddish  
stripe.I swipe at my eyes with an unusually small hand and brush back  
the  
offending lock of red hair.

Red hair?

A very familiar nightstand in a very familiar room stares back at me.

Before I can panic about the implications of waking up in Dana Scully’s  
bed, I realize I’ve awoken in her body.

I sit up abruptly, only to freeze at the alien sensation of  
Scully’s–my?– unbound breasts swaying with the movement. I swallow  
hard. So, that’s what they feel like.

Cool.

As the sheet and comforter fall away from my– her? our?– torso, I  
glance down at the simple white tank top Scully wore to bed. The  
scooped neck of the skimpy shirt gives me an unprecedented eyeful of my  
partner’s decolletage, and I gape shamelessly.

God, her breasts are fucking amazing.

I manage to tear my eyes from her breasts when I feel this odd twinge in  
my abdomen. No, a bit lower. Very odd place for a muscle spasm–

My train of thought derails abruptly when I realize that besides the  
tank top, Scully’s body is clad only in panties.

There is a deity.

Shoving the blankets away, I stare at Scully’s thighs, memorizing the  
sight of her pale body. They’re sensible panties, of course, but made of  
a dark blue fabric with a faint, magical sheen. The tiny scrap of  
fabric somehow manages to tantalize as it serves its mundane purpose.

The shrill ring of Scully’s bedside phone startles me from my lustful  
contemplation of my partner’s assets. Guiltily, I haul the discarded  
covers over her body before reaching for the phone.

In my own body, I could’ve touched the phone without even straightening  
my arm completely, but Scully’s petite frame is another matter  
entirely. I have no idea how the woman can even reach a kitchen  
counter–her torso makes a 45-degree angle with the mattress before her  
tiny hand closes over the receiver.

I bring the phone to my ear and, out of habit, answer, “Mulder.” My  
name comes out in my usual staccato syllables, but it’s her throaty alto  
that I hear. Belatedly, I realize my mistake and add, “Is that you?”

A pause, then my own voice– Is this how I sound to the world? Like a  
robotic drone with a hint of laryngitis?– answers, “Yes.”

Before I can answer, Scully speaks again in my voice.

“What the fuck is going on?”

************

“I don’t know, Scully–er, Mulder–er, Scully,” he says in my voice.  
This is just bizarre. It’s worse than hearing your voice on a tape  
recorder! I mean, I know he’s using his particular voice rhythms and  
all, but I can’t sound like that, it would be just plain fucked up.

“Well, okay. So what does the situation appear to suggest to you?” I  
ask crisply.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he replies.

“Mulder!” I snap. “Would this appear to be some sort of body switch  
situation to you?”

There is a pause on the other end. “Yes. Do you have a clue on how it  
happened?”

“No. But you, small white woman with red hair on the other end of the  
phone, you remember being a guy named Fox Mulder yesterday, don’t you?  
I mean, this isn’t mutual insanity, right? I remember that my body  
wasn’t nearly so rank yesterday.”

“Okay, yeah. I was Mulder yesterday. Or at least I thought so. And this  
is too contrived to be a coincidence. So, let’s assume it’s true.”

“Okay. So what are we going to do?”

“When did I become the expert on body switching?” he asks in an edgy  
voice. Ooh, I do sound like a bitch when I’m pissed off, don’t I?

“I don’t think you’re an expert, Mulder,” I say, trying to be soothing.  
“I just wondered if you had a game plan or were you too busy admiring  
the view?”

There is an embarrassed silence. Gotcha. Not like you wouldn’t expect  
Mulder to examine the merchandise when he’s finally got a chance to see  
it close-up, but he’s also enough of a gentleman to feel ashamed about  
getting caught.

“Scully, I–”

“You break my body, I break your face, okay? Oh, and by the way,  
Mulder–”

“What?” he asks, and the sound of my voice makes me chuckle a little.

“Do you have pains in your abdomen?” I ask. That’s awkward, but how else  
am I supposed to say it?

“As a matter of fact, it feels like someone’s stuck a fucking knife in  
my stomach and is getting kicks twisting it slowly,” he replies.

“Well, Mulder, that is what we women call cramps. It’s not exactly my  
fault, but I– that is to say my body I–am on my period. Tampons are in  
the cupboard under the sink. I’m pretty sure you can handle it. If not–  
well, try not to ruin all my underwear, okay?” I ask.

“Scu-lleeeeeeeee!” he protests in a high-pitched whine.

“Call you back later, you need a shower,” I say, and hang up. Then I  
burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s the fact I’m in a male body or  
what, but I am being mean today. Oh, well. Time for the shower.

I strip off the stinking, nasty garments Mulder wore to bed last night  
and start up the water. This whole new perspective thing’s a bitch. I  
mean, it’s not the male thing, it’s the fact I’m seeing the world from  
six feet  
instead of five foot two. Plus, Mulder is gangly. Awkward. If I were  
him, I’d have perpetual vertigo.

Ahh, Head and Shoulders– I’m finding out all sorts of things about my  
partner today. Like he needs to take a good trip to a Wal-Mart and  
stock up on supplies. Like his morning breath tastes like rotten cheese  
and  
Heineken. Like he’s actually pretty muscular for such a lean man–okay.  
So I fantasize a little about Mulder. I also fantasize about Sean  
Connery, Brad Pitt, and this really cute guy I see around the FBI every  
so often–  
I think his name’s George or something. I do have a pulse, sue me.

The question presents itself: I’m wearing Mulder’s body on a Saturday  
What exactly do I intend to do with it? I mean, I did have a date with  
my mom to go antiquing today– ooh. This whole deal keeps getting better  
and better. An almost infinite amount of torture for Mulder– and he  
thought he just got to look down my shirt.

************

Fucking perfect.

When I *finally* get free reign over the utterly luscious body of one  
Dana Katherine Scully, *why* in God’s name do I have to be introduced so  
rudely to the intricacies and indignities of the female reproductive  
cycle? Welcome to my life.

Have I mentioned that blood makes me nauseous? Green about the gills?  
Absolutely fucking ill? And if it’s Scully’s blood…

I better sit down.

Oh, yeah; I *am* sitting.

With a frustrated sigh, I wait for my head to clear, then tentatively  
take to my feet. Scully’s feet. Whatever. God, having breasts is the  
strangest feeling. The slightest movement and they just jiggle all over  
the place. Very disconcerting. In a thoroughly sexual way, of course.  
Sexually disconcerting.

Wow, the world is strange from this height. I pause and glance around  
Scully’s bedroom. It looks like I’m still sitting down. She’s barely  
tall enough to reach the damn bureau! My stomach twists again, more  
forcefully this time, and I turn purposefully to the bedroom door.

Her bathroom is large and quite… well, girlie. Feminine. Lots of  
little bottles of lotions and bath oils and a small bag of makeup. As  
if I’ll have a *clue* how to begin to apply that. Her damn mole will  
just have to  
go uncovered today. It’s incredibly sexy anyway. I’ve never understood  
her compulsion to slather cover-up all over it.

But, first things first. I’m reaching for her panties when it hits me.  
Women do *not* urinate standing up. How inconvenient.

I turn around and hook my thumbs in the panties, then freeze. Wait a  
minute.

Gaping at her breasts while they’re still technically covered by her  
tank top is one thing. But, I’m about to get up close and personal with  
Scully’s…

I swallow hard.

Scully’s… primary sexual characteristics. If Scully can use science to  
distance herself from sexual desire, so can I, dammit.

With that thought, I pull the panties down over her hips, my hands  
grazing the soft skin as I uncover it. Closing my eyes tightly, I sit  
down on the toilet and do what needs to be done.

Yet another cramp hits me, and I groan, remembering Scully’s vague  
instructions. I open one eye a bit and glance towards the medicine  
cabinet. Great. I can’t reach it from here. Well, *I* could reach it  
from  
here, but Scully’s puny little arms are just not going to bridge the  
distance.

With a frustrated sigh, I sidle, duck-like, to the cabinet, panties  
braced around my knees. I squint into the dark recesses of the cabinet.  
Toilet bowl cleanser. Super-sized roll of Green Forest recycled toilet  
paper.

There. Tampax. Forty tampons. Super tampons, whatever that means. I  
fumble with the box until it opens, then retrieve a paper-wrapped tube.  
I toss the box onto the sink, then waddle back to the toilet without  
dropping the panties. I sink back onto the toilet seat and regard the  
foreign object in my hand.

How the fuck does this thing work?

I suppose some sort of instruction manual is included with the box, but  
I’m confident in my ability to conquer this little piece of cotton and  
cardboard.

Okay. Tear here. I rip the end of the paper wrapper off. So far so  
good. I assume that I pull this cardboard tube out–

Fuck!

I don’t know much about tampons, but I assume the damn things aren’t  
supposed to be in two pieces when inserted.

I pull the other remaining piece from the wrapper and study it. A big  
hunk of cotton with a tail stuffed inside of a cardboard tube. And  
let’s not forget the empty tube that’s now resting comfortably behind  
the toile where it rolled when I dropped it.

I want my penis.

Please tell me that is *not* a knock on the door.

************

Mulder is such a male slob. All of his clothes are dirty! This sucks!

I don’t want to do his laundry–though it looks like I’m going to have  
to. I revolt. One load. And it’ll be of clothes *I* like him in, like  
these wonderful jeans that give a nice view of his butt, and ah, yes,  
this  
t-shirt. Black t-shirt. I sit in his only clean pair of boxers, which I  
bet one of the Gunmen gave him as a gag gift, and grin like a cat. For  
some reason, I feel like re-enacting that scene where Tom Cruise skates  
in  
the room with his underwear–that was _Risky Business_, right? But no,  
we get to do laundry. And we’re getting some food.

The phone rings. I wait, and then pick up.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Mulder, it’s Tyrone. Are you still on for today?” a rough male voice  
asks.

“On for what?” I inquire cluelessly.

“Man, the three on three b-ball. You said it was gonna be you, me, and  
Jamal. We were gonna kick ass and take names, bro. What, you have a hot  
date with whatsherface, your good luck gal?”

“I don’t remember, man. I have a hangover,” I say, panicking. I don’t  
know how to play basketball. I’m a tiny thing, when I tried to play in  
high school PE I always got knocked ass over ankles. Of course, I made  
up for it in soccer and field hockey.

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you chickening out, bro,” Tyrone says. I  
sigh. What the hell. Mulder is big enough, and maybe his body knows  
stuff. Beats the hell out of doing laundry and shopping for this big  
lazy punk.

“No. I’m coming to play, bro, and you better be prepared. How long  
before I’m supposed to show up? And where’s it at, I forgot. This  
hangover was a doozy.”

Tyrone snorts. “Mulder, you are one crazy bastard. Our first match-up  
is in forty-five minutes, at King High School, all right? And Mulder,  
don’t forget your lucky charm. You sound fucked up enough without  
jinxing  
yourself by forgetting Lil’Red.”

“Of course I’ll remember. She keeps me winning, doesn’t she?” I ask  
ironically. Lil’Red. One guess to who that is. “See you there.”

I hang up and call Mulder frantically. “Dana Scully’s residence,” my mom  
answers.

“Mo–Mrs. Scully, could I please talk to Scully? Now?”

“Fox?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Where is she?”

“She’s in the bathroom with girl problems, Fox.”

“She’ll talk to me. Knock and tell her it’s me and it’s urgent.”

My mom does as she’s told and within seconds, I’m on the phone to  
Mulder.

“Thanks for mentioning I get to go antiquing with Mom,” he says  
sarcastically. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to be at your three on three b-ball tournament in forty-five  
minutes, you have neither food nor clean clothes, and what exactly is  
Lil’Red?”

Silence. “Well, Lil’Red is my lucky basketball charm. It’s in my  
basketball bag; you’ll know her when you see her. By the way, the bag  
is under the TV, okay? There are clean basketball clothes in the bag as  
well. Feel free to feed my body whatever you please, but it likes high  
concentrations of sugar and fat. Donuts are a boy’s best friend. By the  
way, how the hell do you work these things?”

“Mulder, insert tab a into slot b. I know you can do it. And make sure  
to remove the applicator.”

“Oh. Okay. Okay. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, I do,” I reply. “What if I suck it up today?”

“I’ll get heckled and driven from my basketball haunts and be no more a  
man. But on the plus side, I do get to figure out the difference between  
a credenza and a candelabra.”

“Mulder, please don’t do something too unspeakable. Remember, I love my  
mother. I’d prefer to be on speaking terms with her. Don’t tell her  
anything ludicrous, like I’m having a wild affair with you or Skinner or  
something.”

“Check. Keep the Maggie/Dana relationship in check. What if she tells  
me she’s having the wild affair with Skinner? Or Cancerman?”

“Call me immediately and don’t say anything to her except ‘Oh, that’s  
nice..’ And don’t tease. Now I have to go get something to eat.”

I hang up, and find his bag. It’s New York Knicks–of course. I rustle  
and find a key chain with my picture in it. It’s a good picture; my mom  
must have given it to him. How cute. I check the bag to make sure that  
I’m really Lil’Red, and when I’m convinced, put on the “clean” clothes.

Mulder and I have differing definitions on some things, and this is  
definitely one of them. But I don’t have time to clean up. I dress,  
lace up the shoes, find his wallet, and head out to get breakfast.

Donuts sound amazingly good.

************

Okay. This is fine. Really. Nothing’s wrong.

Oh, fuck me twice.

This tampon thing is *not* working out for me. I finally got one to  
work correctly on my fourth try, but now it doesn’t feel quite…  
right. The instructions claim you’re not supposed to be able to feel  
the damn things!

This is not good.

With an exasperated sigh, I reach down and tug on the string. I drop  
the tampon into the open toilet and watch balefully as it explodes to  
twice its size in the water. “Fuck you,” I mumble as I flush.

Turning back to the box of tampons on the sink, I very nearly trip on  
the pair of panties I’d discarded on the floor. The sight of Scully’s  
naked body isn’t doing much for me anymore.

And even if it was, her mother’s presence in the living room should  
preclude any lascivious thoughts on my part.

I grab another tampon–fifth time’s the charm, right?–and unwrap it.  
Damn, but I’m getting good at this. I lean into this strange  
half-crouch and deftly insert the tampon. I remove the applicator and  
stand up cautiously.

Could it be…?

I shift my, uh, her hips a bit. I don’t feel a thing. I take a couple  
of steps to be sure.

Yes! *Finally*!

We have liftoff! Or insert.

Whatever.

I toss the cardboard applicator in the toilet and flush it with a  
triumphant smirk. No problem. Now, shower time. I reach down and  
strip Scully’s tank top from her body.

Oh, yeah.

Almost forgot about her breasts. But, they are, in fact, unforgettable.  
I steal a glance at her lush body in the mirror. Of course, she’s too  
damn short to get the proper angle, so I can only see down to the tops  
of her  
thighs. Which is still a mighty fine view.

Mighty fine.

“Dana?”

Shit. I blush and grab the bathrobe of the back of the door. I don’t  
know why, since I’m certainly not going to *open* the door for Scully’s  
mother.

“Yes… mom?” It’s going to be tricky to remember to call her ‘mom’ all  
day.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we’ve got to get on the road soon. I’m  
not sure where Rose’s Garden of Antiques is.”

Rose’s Garden of Antiques?

Kill me now.

“I’m just going to take a really quick shower,” I answer, hoping my  
voice doesn’t betray my trepidation. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“I’ll just have a cup of coffee, then.”

“Sure, mom.”

Okay. No more Scullygazing. Just a shower. What could possibly go wrong  
with a shower?

With a jelly donut in my mouth, size 13 Nikes on my feet, and Lil’Red in  
my bag, I realize I don’t look completely out of place when I cruise up  
to the b-ball tournament. Slight problem. I have no bleepin’ clue who  
Tyrone or Jamal is.

“Spooks! Babe!” someone bellows at me. I turn and look. A tall black  
guy who I think I recognize from the Bureau nods. He looks like he’s  
ready to play. I hope he’s on my team.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to be cool.

“Me and Rick and Lopez are gonna kick your ass, Spooky,” the guy says.  
“I seen your jump shot. You got no game.”

“Oh, I got no game,” I reply. “What do you got, man? Less than  
nothin’? Two olives and a gherkin? I’ll watch you play, then I will  
show you how to play.”

This is fun. Men don’t realize women know how to trash-talk. Just– yo  
mama jokes aren’t nearly as funny when a woman says them. Besides, guys  
get all defensive over it.

“Hey, it’s Mulder,” another man says. His dark eyes catch mine and roll  
over the other guy. “Man, you got to tell me someday how you look so  
good even when you smell bad and are hung over.”

“Tyrone, shut up and let’s see if Mulder’s up to playin,” the man next  
to him says. Something in my stomach turns. Oh, God. Moment of truth.  
I take the ball and dribble it. My usual difficulties, while not  
completely  
gone, are less. I dribble for a moment or two, and make a few lay-ups.  
From the look on Jamal’s face, he’s a little worried, but not to an  
overwhelming extent.

“Hung-over. What a day to do it, Mulder,” Tyrone says. “Why’d you go get  
drunk anyway?”

“No fuckin’ clue, man,” I reply honestly.

“It’s love, my brotha,” Jamal says. I don’t know what to say to that.

“You got no game, Spooky!” yells the same guy from the Bureau.

“Aw, fuck yourself, Action Jackson!” Tyrone replied. “Leo Jackson. He  
think he all that and more. But he got nothin.”

“Well, let’s show him that,” I reply with a wicked grin. Yeah. I wanna  
beat this guy. Sue me.

Tyrone and Jamal nod, and we step out on the court. I say another  
little prayer. Please God, let me be able to play basketball. I want  
to have game.

************

“I’m *sorry*, mom,” I repeat. Geez, if this is the flip side of the  
Sainted Mrs. Scully, my partner can keep her mother. That  
disappointed-slash-irritated look *stings*.

Mrs. Scully nods curtly and move ahead of me. She pops open the door to  
her car–since when does Scully’s mother drive a Miata?– and gets in.  
I wait for her to unlock my side, then settle into the car beside her.

Wow. Cool car. Of course, I’d never fit into it with *my* body.

“It’s fine, Dana,” she says as she shoves the key into the ignition and  
twists it sharply.

Yeah. She’s as shitty at lying as her daughter. I sit in an  
uncomfortable silence as Mrs. Scully pulls into traffic. Yikes.  
Obviously, Scully did not learn her defensive driving techniques from  
her speed-demon of a mother.

I’m at a complete loss. And I’m far too concerned with the tin can of a  
car we’re in and its proximity to the sudden glut of Sport Utility  
Vehicles out there to figure out how to apologize for taking an extra  
hour to get Scully’s body ready for public viewing. Like I’m supposed  
to know how to shave legs? Is it my fault one tiny little nick bled for  
like twenty minutes?

Scully’s going to kick my ass.

And then there’s the whole chick routine: Hair. Makeup. Complicated  
articles of clothing. Just give me a jockstrap and an occasional shave,  
and I’m fine.

The Miata careens into a parking lot, and I glance up. Oh, look. It’s  
Rose’s Garden of Antiques. Wonderful. I hold in that long-suffering sigh  
that Scully does so well and glance over at Mrs. Scully.

After pulling the key from the ignition, she turns to me and gives me a  
beatific smile. “I’m so glad you agreed to this, Dana,” she says, her  
voice warm.

Um… have I stepped into a space-time anomaly? I thought this woman  
wanted to rip my balls off– well, metaphorical balls, given the  
situation– ten minutes ago, and now she’s beaming at me.

“Yeah,” I answer lamely. At the slight furrowing of her eyebrows, I  
hastily add, “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“Great,” she says brightly. “Let’s go.”

I pull myself slowly out of the car and turn to face the small  
building. The roof is listing to one side, the sign is homemade and  
faded, and the front windows showcase an amazingly large collection  
of… junk.

Perfect. Scully’s ruining my reputation on the court, and I’m stuck  
antiquing in some hellhole. Just fucking perfect.

************

I got game.

I know that this is the most pathetic of all triumphs ever, but it was  
incredible. Mulder’s body just took over, all the instincts and talent  
hidden in this long, lanky, and sensually male frame bursting out,  
pushed by my stubborn short desire to win a game of basketball for once  
in my life. It was beautiful. Tyrone and Jamal were thrilled.

Of course there was that ridiculous little ritual they had me perform  
before each game. I had to kiss Lil’Red. Yeah. I know. But apparently,  
Mulder does it before every game. So I kissed my own picture and  
strutted out on the court to play. And I strutted, oh yes. Mulder is  
meant to strut.

I only committed one really deliberate personal foul during the whole  
affair. Yes, I am embarrassed as hell to admit it, but I elbowed Action  
Leo Jackson in the gut. But I had good reason! Good fucking reason! Not  
only had he trash-talked me before I even got on the court, but then he  
had the unmitigated gall to disrespect me. I don’t care whether or not  
Mulder would have pulled the medieval chivalric bullshit of defending  
his  
lady’s honor, but no one is going to dis me to my face and get away with  
it.

Ice Queen my ass!

So we didn’t win the tournament or anything, but I preserved Mulder’s  
male honor. He can still play ball without being taunted or being “no  
more a man” or any of that testosterone fueled bullshit. Tyrone, Jamal,  
and I had a celebratory double bacon cheeseburger. Then I begged off and  
went home. I smelled bad, my clothes were still fucking filthy, and I  
needed to talk to Mulder. So I went back to his apartment and  
immediately stuck a load of clothes in the washing machine. On the way  
back up, I ran into her.

Five foot ten inches and one hundred and twenty pounds of big breasted  
blonde perfection.

“Fox!” she cried. “Hi! It’s me, Marlene!”

“Marlene,” I said in a voice that I hoped conveyed ‘get the hell away  
from me’ in a polite way. “Hey.”

“You never got back to me about dinner! Come on, Fox, I insist.”

“Uh– Marlene, that’s very nice of you, but no. I’m really busy.”

Marlene’s perfect face took on a sulky look. “Fine. Whatever.”

She sidled past me and I ran the rest of the way back to Mulder’s  
apartment and straight into a hot shower. Good girl, er, boy, er good  
Dana. Of course now that I’m in the shower and underneath all those  
clothes, Mulder is indeed naked, I may be in trouble. I’m not confused  
or awkward in this body anymore. I know how it feels, how it moves, how  
it might be in an athletic activity that *ain’t* basketball.

God, I need a cold shower.

Somehow I make it out of the shower sane and towel off for the second  
time in Mulder’s body. I find some dirty clothes and hurry back down to  
the laundry room. Clothes into the dryer, up to the apartment. When  
those clothes get done, I will finally get to put Mulder in those tight  
jeans and black t-shirt that I’ve been craving for all damned day.

But what will I do all dressed up and nowhere to go? A devilish grin  
crosses Mulder’s face. Dinner and a movie, Ms. Scully? I do want to see  
how the big fat dork handled my body for today anyhow. And after the  
antiquing venture, I’m sure he’ll accept my offer if I tell him we’re  
going to go see _Gone With the Wind_.

************

Somebody get me the fuck out of here.

If I see one more chipped Flintstones jelly glass, I will not be  
responsible for my actions. Mrs. Scully has accumulated a remarkably  
tasteful collection of items to buy, but she seems a little perturbed  
with  
my inability to find any bargains.

I am not a bargain-hunter. I’m a grab-whatever’s-on-the-shelf kind of  
guy. Girl. Whatever.

But, there is nothing here to grab. Unfortunately, there *is* a very  
annoying man who seems to be following me around the piles of crap.

“Dana, look at this!” Scully’s mother exclaims.

I take a deep breath and hope I’m not making that sourpuss face of  
Scully’s. Mrs. Scully is holding up a delicate blown-glass cat  
figurine. It looks like something my great aunt Faye would display on  
her  
windowsill. I force a smile.

Mrs. Scully gives me a questioning look as I reach her side. “Do you  
think Tara would like this?”

It takes me a minute, but I make the connection. Tara. As in Bill Jr.’s  
wife. His Stepford Wife from hell. Forcing a smile, I nod.

Scully’s mother pats my arm. “Okay, honey. Let me just check out.”

She wanders towards the counter, and I stare at an incredibly large  
collection of 45s marked ten cents each. Apparently, some idiots are  
still willing to *pay* for records. Unbelievable.

The creepy guy slithers up to me, pretending–badly, I might add–to be  
interested in a really ugly red glass shoe. He glances over at me,  
feigning surprise.

I’m not amused. I’ve seen that look before–hell, I’ve *done* that look  
before–and I know he’s lusting after my body. Well, Scully’s body.  
Whatever.

“Hi,” he says, his voice alarmingly high-pitched. One hand smooths  
what’s left of his hair as he gives me an eerie smile. “Any good  
albums?”

I shoot him a cold look. “I think I saw You Don’t Own Me in there  
somewhere,” I answer, deadpan.

He laughs, an odd hacking sound, and moves closer, holding out his  
hand. “You’re funny, and I’m Ed Presley, no relation,” he adds with a  
laugh.

Reluctantly, I shake his hand. Disgusting! His palm is sweaty, and he  
barely even squeezes my hand. Then, his name registers. What *is* it  
with guys named Ed having the hots for Scully?

“Nice to meet you,” I answer sweetly. “I’m late.”

Ignoring the sputtering from Ed, I make a beeline for the exit. I’ll  
just wait in the car.

************

“Mulder, it’s me,” I say in his voice. “We did fairly well in the game  
today. Remind me to kick the crap out of that Agent Jackson next time we  
run across him.”

“Got it. What sort of crap was he talking this time?”

“Ice Queen. By the way, Mulder, I love your elbows. They’re excellent  
for gouging,” I tell him sardonically.

“Thank you, madame. So why did you call? Is there another evil woman  
ritual I have to go through today? I spent the day with your mother,  
cramps are a big ball of wrong, I don’t understand it but it really does  
take that long for a woman to get ready, and I keep having cravings for  
chocolate.”

“You want to have dinner over at your place and then go to the movies?  
Compare days?” I ask. “I’m ordering in Chinese and buying beer and maybe  
we can rent a video if you’re not up to a movie.”

I hear his long sigh of relief. “You are a goddess, Agent Scully.”

“Shh! Mulder! If my mom’s around, she’s going to be confused. And you  
sound really– gay– right now, and my mom might try to find some nice  
lesbian to fix me up with.”

Mulder bursts into laughter. I like that sound. I wonder why I don’t  
laugh more often. It sounds downright sexy in a cute sort of way, even  
though it’s really creepy to be turned on by your own laugh.

“I love your mom. She can’t drive, but she’s great. So, be at your place  
around seven-thirty?”

“I will be waiting, Mulder,” I reply. “Remember, you have to change  
tampons or you ruin my underwear. And then you’ll have to pay to replace  
them.”

Mulder makes this little sound I’ve never heard from my throat before.  
It sounds like– well, I can’t describe it, but it’s really pathetic.  
“Okay, okay,” he whines. “See ya later.”

He hangs up and I lounge back on the couch. An evil grin crosses my  
face. Oh, what I’m going to do to you, Agent Mulder in Scully’s  
clothing. But first I’m going to get dressed and do your hair. I have to  
look good, after all.

************

I hang up the phone and feel what can only be a shit-eating grin on my  
face. I do believe the Enigmatic Agent Scully has just initiated an  
evening with distinct date-like qualities. Guess I’d better get her  
body ready.

I head for her bedroom, but make a very necessary pit stop in the  
bathroom. Geez, her bladder must be the size of a marble. I only had one  
glass of iced tea with my burger–which, by the way, gained me some odd  
looks from Mrs. Scully–and I feel like I’m about to burst.

And, of course, I’ve got to change the tampon. Luckily, I manage it on  
the first try this time and give myself a satisfied grin in the mirror.

Now, what to put on this hot little body for the evening?

I crack my knuckles and approach the closet. This should be  
interesting.

Suit. Suit. Suit. Suit. Geez, how boring. Does she even *own* any  
interesting–

Wait just one moment.

“Well, well, well, Agent Scully,” I mumble. “What have we here?”

I pull out a shimmery shirt and stare at it. It’s a really deep reddish  
color, short, and tiny. It’s got to be tight on her. I hold it up to my  
body.

Gulp.

Stops at her midriff. I think we’ve got a winner. I yank the t-shirt  
I’m wearing over my head, then shimmy into the maroon shirt. It fits  
like a second skin, and feels unbelievably sexy.

I glance in the mirror and am instantly impressed. The scoop neckline  
reveals *just* enough, the fabric clings alluringly, and the contrast  
between the dark fabric and the pale skin of her navel is startling, and  
quite seductive.

“If Frohike could see you now…” I tell the mirror, smirking.  
“Actually,” I add with a grimace. “I don’t even want to think about what  
Frohike would do.”

Sadly, the tan pants I chose earlier are just *not* going to make the  
cut.

I return to the closet. She’s got to have some black pants or something  
stashed away in here. Oooh, even better. Underneath some neatly folded  
pants, I find a pair of worn jeans. Comfortably worn.

I change quickly, and the jeans are a perfect compliment to the shirt–  
fitted, but not skin tight. They are also low-slung, leaving her belly  
button visible. I twist in front of the mirror, and, yes, the top of  
her tattoo just peeks out above the waistline.

“Nice job, Agent Mulder,” I congratulate myself. Now, shoes.

I glance at the floor of the closet and am horrified to see what can  
only be described as a shitload of shoes.

With a sigh, I drop to my knees. I knew it couldn’t possibly be that  
simple.

************

I cannot believe what he put me in. The pervert! The nerve! What is it  
with Mulder that he has to find the pair of pants I despise– they make  
my ass look enormous– and then pair it with a flimsy little bimbo  
wannabe t-shirt I bought on an outing with a few girlfriends. It’s made  
for a cute undergrad, skintight, belly-revealing, and thoroughly  
unprofessional. At least he didn’t stick me in a miniskirt and heels.  
Maybe he thought it was cool.

“What the hell did you dress me in?” I ask anyway.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Since when am I an extra for  
Melrose Place?”

“You look good in this. I look like a Calvin Klein model wannabe.”

“You look young in this. Adventurous. I liked it when I found it in your  
closet. I especially liked the purple Doc Martens.”

“Those aren’t mine,” I lie. He lifts an eyebrow and I realize I must  
look a bit silly, doing that so often. Well, maybe if Mulder weren’t so  
full of shit all the time… “So, dude looks like a lady, are you  
hungry?”

“Starving. Did you remember chocolate?”

“Mulder, I’ve been a woman most of my life. Of course I remembered  
chocolate.”

He smiles, and I notice I smell very good. Oh, this is just too weird. I  
know I’ve got the hots for Mulder, Mulder’s body has the hots for mine,  
but me in Mulder’s body finds it sickening to be turned on by my slim  
form before me. It’s like a really sick version of masturbation.

“Good. I’m hungry.”

He licks those lips, and my head swims a little. Snap out of it, Dana!  
This is getting stranger by the minute. How am I going to deal with  
this?

“Well, let’s get the Chinese, hey?” I stall, hurrying for the kitchen.  
Good plan. Food as diversion.

Of course, this will all go to hell when we try to figure out what to  
watch tonight, but for now, I’m fine with it.

************

I dig into my Kung Pao chicken with a vengeance. Anything to distract me  
from her–my?–lanky body in that outfit. There has got to be some sick,  
twisted reference to this in Freud somewhere. I have never actually  
wanted to fuck *myself*.

I’ve never been real conceited about my looks, mostly because I could  
only see my huge nose, my weak chin, and that damn mole. It very well  
could be the outfit, but from where I’m sitting right now, I am a damn  
good-looking man.

Of course, it’s probably just Scully’s body reacting to me. My body,  
whatever. That’s entirely possible. But, if the blank look she’s got  
on my face is any indication, the sight of Scully’s tight little body in  
this get up is doing less than nothing for her.

Great. Story of my life. When I’m in my rightful body, I want Scully.  
When I’m in Scully’s, I want my own body. This is just sick.

And, of course, Scully, in all her incarnations, could care less about  
me. Sexually speaking. I mean, she probably shouldn’t get turned on by  
her own body–Oh, *fuck* it!

“So, Scully,” I ask, a tinge of desperation in my voice. “How’s your  
food?”

A-ha! I saw that! While I was speaking, her eyes dropped to my lips.  
Her lips. ARGH! Whatever. It appears the unshakable Agent Scully might  
just be having the same gender identification problems as me. Yes!

“Pretty good, Mulder,” she answers, and it’s like watching myself in a  
mirror. Then, she licks that pouty lower lip, and it’s *nothing* like  
watching myself in the mirror. She catches it, and gives me a slow  
smile. A smile I recognize. That’s my most convincing fuck-me smile.

Oh, dear. I fervently hope Scully’s and my first sexual experience is  
not going to be while we’re in the wrong bodies.

She leans my body closer, her eyes burning into me. “Actually,” she  
amends, her voice lowering. “It’s quite tasty. And I’m really hungry.”

I swallow hard.

Suddenly, I don’t care if we’re in the wrong bodies. All I know is that  
I want that one.

************

This is wrong, this is wrong, I repeat over and over to myself. My pulse  
is speeding up, my mouth is dry and yeah, I’m getting aroused. This is  
so bad. But God help me, I want him. Her. Mulder!

“Want a bite of mine?” I ask. Mulder blinks at me with those baby blues  
and I suddenly realize my jeans are a little tight.

“Uh– sure.”

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” I offer.

Mulder immediately shoots me one of my personal favorite looks– yeah,  
right, buddy. I grin.

“What’s wrong, Mulder, don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you, Scully, just not that male body you happen to be in right  
now.”

I put some broccoli beef on my fork and lift it toward my mouth. “Here,”  
I offer. “Take a bite.”

Mulder accepts, and he-she-whatever looks really sexy doing that. And I  
know it’s sick and wrong and bad, but after Mulder finishes, I lean in  
and kiss him in my own body. So much for self restraint, because no  
matter what the weird value is on this experience, it’s a kiss.

My lips are soft and salty, tasting of soy and dinner and lipstick. It’s  
sexy and my tongue sweeps out and presses against teeth. Mulder is very  
obliging, and soon I’m out of air. I break the kiss.

“Mulder?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“You know this is really sick, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“Hell, no,” he replies. We start kissing again, lips and faces and  
necks–god damn, it doesn’t matter if he’s in his body or not, Mulder  
can use his mouth to his advantage. Then I feel a little hand reach for  
the breast that’s not there. And stop.

“Shit,” I hear myself mutter. “This just–”

“What?” I ask. My jeans are a lot tighter now, and it’s taking a lot of  
self-control not to pull Mulder in my lap and get that shirt off of him.

“The creepiness level is rising on this,” he groans. “I think we should  
stop.”

“WHAT?” I ask. I look at him in utter shock. “Now? Mulderrrrrr–”

************

I very reluctantly pull away from my *own* body, which I now desperately  
want to unclothe. Glancing up at her– which is weird in itself– to  
find my own hazel eyes staring back at me, I cringe. Apparently The Look  
jumped bodies with her. “Uh, Scully?”

“What, Mulder?” she asks, my rough voice impatient and a tad  
condescending.

“We can’t do this,” I answer regretfully. As much as I want  
her–regardless of whose body she’s wearing– I’d never quite pictured  
our first time to be in the midst of an actual, for real, documentable  
X-File.

Scully stares at me for a long moment, then effortlessly produces that  
smirk that has taken me years to perfect. With a pointed glance towards  
her lap– well, technically, my lap– she whispers, “Trust me, Mulder,  
this body is quite able.”

I groan and pull away. “Not like this, Scully. We should,” I pause,  
waving her small hand in the air in confusion. “Wait 24 hours. See if  
it goes away.”

The smirk transforms itself into a scowl. “Mulder, this isn’t the flu,”  
she replies, exasperated. I hope I’ve never given her that disgusted  
look; it’s brutal.

“I know that,” I answer sharply, sticking her full bottom lip out into a  
pout. I don’t think it has quite the same effect as when I do it in my  
*own* body, but I do what I can.

Scully rises, towering over me in that lanky body. I realize suddenly  
how much smaller she is than me. It’s quite strange that she can be so  
formidable in a body this size. The note of panic in her voice brings  
me back to the present.

“How do you know we’re not *stuck* like this?” she asks, eyes wide. I  
recognize the expression–it’s my panicky,  
freaked-out-over-the-latest-inexplicable-thing-I’ve-stumbled-across  
look.

Maybe it has something to do with being inside of Scully’s body, but I  
feel oddly rational. Unusually so. I stand and touch my own bicep with  
a tiny hand. “We were both asleep when this happened,” I answer. “Maybe  
that’s the key.”

Scully, locked in my body, studies me for a moment. She keeps my face  
utterly expressionless, and I’m even more clued out than usual to her  
thought processes. Finally, she nodded softly. “So what do you  
propose?”

Slowly, I let a grin surface and cock one eyebrow. “In the interests of  
science, I must ask you to sleep with me tonight.”

“Right,” Scully rolls her eyes, but the small smile on her lips matches  
my own. “In the interests of science.”

************

“All right, Mulder,” I say in a gruff voice. “But what bed are we  
sleeping in? You use the couch, as I recall. And that’s rather small for  
two to just sleep in.”

“We’ll go to your place. You have a big bed. Plenty of room for you  
and me,” Mulder says, Ms. Cool.

“Okay. So we’ll go to my place, have a nice long nap, and wake up as  
cockroaches tomorrow?”

“Only if God is Kafka,” Mulder replies.

“Mulder,” I say in his deep voice. “Do you know how silly that sounded?  
And that your- well, my- ass looks enormous in those jeans?”

“Scully, um, nothing about you is enormous. I think,” and he cranes my  
neck around, “Your ass looks quite sexy in these jeans.”

“Sure fine whatever, Mulder. Let’s go back to my place, because  
whomever I wake up tomorrow, your ass is mine.”

Mulder smiles that “good God, I’m a damned sexy man” smile, and slips  
his arm around me.

“That sounds like a deal to me.”

************  
Epilogue

The clock radio goes off. “This is Lisa Tricatello with National Public  
Radio at seven thirty on this Sunday morning, and next is a special  
program with John Gillnitz of the National Academy of Cultural Arts  
discussing the state of American folklore today.”

I roll over. Onto somebody else. I rub my eyes, and try to remember last  
night. Last night- last-

“Mulder?” I ask. My voice is high again. “Mulder, wake up.”

“But I’m naked!” Mulder cries. Unfortunately, he’s not. But I don’t  
think he’s quite awake either.

“Mulder,” I say, leaning over him and tracing a finger down his cheek.  
“Wakey-wakey.”

His hazel eyes snap open. “Did I pass the test?” he asks.

“What?”

He looks at me and blinks. “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry, I was having a  
dream about a bunch of bikers in pleather giving me a test about the  
importance of George Lucas in American history.”

“And you were naked?”

“Hey,” Mulder says. “You’re a woman!”

“Congratulations on figuring that out,” I reply drily.

“I’m a man, then, aren’t I?” he asks in this pathetically eager voice.

“I’m a doctor, I think I should be able to figure it out,” I reply. I  
lift the sheets, and look–with clinical detachment, of course–at  
what’s tenting those obnoxious ‘Ghostbusters’ boxers someone must have  
bought him as a gag gift.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Mulder asks.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I reply, popping out from under the  
sheets.

“And I’m not a cockroach?”

“I guess God’s not Kafka, Mulder,” I say, kissing him in a very serious  
way. “And let me remind you, your ass is still mine, but-”

Crap. Cramps.

“But?” Mulder asks, looking like a kid in a candy store.

“I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

As I run for the restroom, I hear Mulder say, “Cramps are a bitch. I  
don’t know how you women put up with that shit. If I knew anything  
about it, I’d find a way to abolish them.”

“It’s so not-sexy to hear you say that, Mulder.”

“Well, sexy, why don’t you get back here and I’ll show you about what  
else I learned during my day as a woman?” he drawls as I take care of  
business.

“Oh, look who knows so much after one day in a woman’s body,” I reply,  
jumping back into bed. He kisses me, and his hands are everywhere.  
“Mmmm.”

“Is that a good mmm or a bad mmm?”

“It’s a keep going mmm,” I reply. Well, maybe he has learned something  
from yesterday’s aberrant experience.

If not, I’m certainly willing to teach him.

END

 

 

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This entry was posted in [X-Files](https://jenniferoksana.wordpress.com/category/x-files/) and tagged [mulder/scully](https://jenniferoksana.wordpress.com/tag/mulderscully/). Bookmark the [permalink](https://jenniferoksana.wordpress.com/2008/09/29/this-side-of-paradise-x-files/).

 

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### One response to “This Side of Paradise [X-Files]”

  1. [kayknitsnow](http://kknits.wordpress.com) | [ September 8, 2011 at 4:23 pm](https://jenniferoksana.wordpress.com/2008/09/29/this-side-of-paradise-x-files/#comment-616) | [Reply](https://jenniferoksana.wordpress.com/2008/09/29/this-side-of-paradise-x-files/?replytocom=616#respond)

I love this whole thing, but where I really cracked up was near the beginning with Mulder thinking ‘I want my penis’




 

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jQuery( document ).ready( function( $ ) {

if (typeof Gravatar === "undefined"){  
return;  
}

if ( typeof Gravatar.init !== "function" ) {  
return;  
}

Gravatar.profile_cb = function( hash, id ) {  
WPGroHo.syncProfileData( hash, id );  
};  
Gravatar.my_hash = WPGroHo.my_hash;  
Gravatar.init( 'body', '#wp-admin-bar-my-account' );  
});

 

 

 

/* <![CDATA[ */  
var HighlanderComments = {"loggingInText":"Logging In\u2026","submittingText":"Posting Comment\u2026","postCommentText":"Post Comment","connectingToText":"Connecting to %s","commentingAsText":"%1$s: You are commenting using your %2$s account.","logoutText":"Log Out","loginText":"Log In","connectURL":"https:\/\/jenniferoksana.wordpress.com\/public.api\/connect\/?action=request","logoutURL":"https:\/\/jenniferoksana.wordpress.com\/wp-login.php?action=logout&_wpnonce=fee25f231e","homeURL":"https:\/\/jenniferoksana.wordpress.com\/","postID":"1194","gravDefault":"identicon","enterACommentError":"Please enter a comment","enterEmailError":"Please enter your email address here","invalidEmailError":"Invalid email address","enterAuthorError":"Please enter your name here","gravatarFromEmail":"This picture will show whenever you leave a comment. Click to customize it.","logInToExternalAccount":"Log in to use details from one of these accounts.","change":"Change","changeAccount":"Change Account","comment_registration":"0","userIsLoggedIn":"","isJetpack":"0","text_direction":"ltr"};  
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//<![CDATA[  
var jetpackLikesWidgetQueue = [];  
var jetpackLikesWidgetBatch = [];  
var jetpackLikesMasterReady = false;

function JetpackLikespostMessage( message, target ) {  
if ( "string" === typeof message ){  
try{  
message = JSON.parse( message );  
}  
catch(e) {  
return;  
}  
}

pm( {  
target: target,  
type: 'likesMessage',  
data: message,  
origin: '*'  
} );  
}

function JetpackLikesBatchHandler() {  
var requests = [];  
jQuery( 'div.jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded' ).each( function( i ) {  
if ( jetpackLikesWidgetBatch.indexOf( this.id ) > -1 )  
return;  
jetpackLikesWidgetBatch.push( this.id );  
var regex = /like-(post|comment)-wrapper-(\d+)-(\d+)-(\w+)/;  
var match = regex.exec( this.id );  
if ( ! match || match.length != 5 )  
return;

var info = {  
blog_id: match[2],  
width: this.width  
};

if ( 'post' == match[1] ) {  
info.post_id = match[3];  
} else if ( 'comment' == match[1] ) {  
info.comment_id = match[3];  
}

info.obj_id = match[4];

requests.push( info );  
});

if ( requests.length > 0 ) {  
JetpackLikespostMessage( { event: 'initialBatch', requests: requests }, window.frames['likes-master'] );  
}  
}

function JetpackLikesMessageListener( event ) {  
if ( "undefined" == typeof event.event )  
return;

if ( 'masterReady' == event.event ) {  
jQuery( document ).ready( function() {  
jetpackLikesMasterReady = true;

var stylesData = {  
event: 'injectStyles'  
};

if ( jQuery( 'iframe.admin-bar-likes-widget' ).length > 0 ) {  
JetpackLikespostMessage( { event: 'adminBarEnabled' }, window.frames[ 'likes-master' ] );

stylesData.adminBarStyles = {  
background: jQuery( '#wpadminbar .quicklinks li#wp-admin-bar-wpl-like > a' ).css( 'background' ),  
isRtl: ( 'rtl' == jQuery( '#wpadminbar' ).css( 'direction' ) )  
};  
}

if ( !window.addEventListener )  
jQuery( '#wp-admin-bar-admin-bar-likes-widget' ).hide();

stylesData.textStyles = {  
color: jQuery( '.sd-text-color').css( 'color' ),  
fontFamily: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css( 'font-family' ),  
fontSize: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css( 'font-size' ),  
direction: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css( 'direction' ),  
fontWeight: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css( 'font-weight' ),  
fontStyle: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css( 'font-style' ),  
textDecoration: jQuery( '.sd-text-color' ).css('text-decoration')  
};

stylesData.linkStyles = {  
color: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css('color'),  
fontFamily: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css('font-family'),  
fontSize: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css('font-size'),  
textDecoration: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css('text-decoration'),  
fontWeight: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css( 'font-weight' ),  
fontStyle: jQuery( '.sd-link-color' ).css( 'font-style' )  
};

JetpackLikespostMessage( stylesData, window.frames[ 'likes-master' ] );

JetpackLikesBatchHandler();

jQuery( document ).on( 'inview', 'div.jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded', function() {  
jetpackLikesWidgetQueue.push( this.id );  
});  
});  
}

if ( 'showLikeWidget' == event.event ) {  
jQuery( '#' + event.id + ' .post-likes-widget-placeholder' ).fadeOut( 'fast', function() {  
jQuery( '#' + event.id + ' .post-likes-widget' ).fadeIn( 'fast', function() {  
JetpackLikespostMessage( { event: 'likeWidgetDisplayed', blog_id: event.blog_id, post_id: event.post_id, obj_id: event.obj_id }, window.frames['likes-master'] );  
});  
});  
}

if ( 'clickReblogFlair' == event.event ) {  
wpcom_reblog.toggle_reblog_box_flair( event.obj_id );  
}

if ( 'showOtherGravatars' == event.event ) {  
var $container = jQuery( '#likes-other-gravatars' );  
var $list = $container.find( 'ul' );

$container.hide();  
$list.html( '' );

$container.find( '.likes-text span' ).text( event.total );

jQuery.each( event.likers, function( i, liker ) {  
$list.append( '<li class="' + liker.css_class + '"><a href="' + liker.profile_URL + '" class="wpl-liker" rel="nofollow" target="_parent"><img src="' + liker.avatar_URL + '" alt="' + liker.name + '" width="30" height="30" style="padding-right: 3px;" /></a></li>');  
} );

var offset = jQuery( "[name='" + event.parent + "']" ).offset();

$container.css( 'left', offset.left + event.position.left - 10 + 'px' );  
$container.css( 'top', offset.top + event.position.top - 33 + 'px' );

var rowLength = Math.floor( event.width / 37 );  
var height = ( Math.ceil( event.likers.length / rowLength ) * 37 ) + 13;  
if ( height > 204 ) {  
height = 204;  
}

$container.css( 'height', height + 'px' );  
$container.css( 'width', rowLength * 37 - 7 + 'px' );

$list.css( 'width', rowLength * 37 + 'px' );

$container.fadeIn( 'slow' );

var scrollbarWidth = $list[0].offsetWidth - $list[0].clientWidth;  
if ( scrollbarWidth > 0 ) {  
$container.width( $container.width() + scrollbarWidth );  
$list.width( $list.width() + scrollbarWidth );  
}  
}  
}

pm.bind( 'likesMessage', function(e) { JetpackLikesMessageListener(e); } );

jQuery( document ).click( function( e ) {  
var $container = jQuery( '#likes-other-gravatars' );

if ( $container.has( e.target ).length === 0 ) {  
$container.fadeOut( 'slow' );  
}  
});

function JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler() {  
var wrapperID;  
if ( ! jetpackLikesMasterReady ) {  
setTimeout( JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler, 500 );  
return;  
}

if ( jetpackLikesWidgetQueue.length > 0 ) {  
// We may have a widget that needs creating now  
var found = false;  
while( jetpackLikesWidgetQueue.length > 0 ) {  
// Grab the first member of the queue that isn't already loading.  
wrapperID = jetpackLikesWidgetQueue.splice( 0, 1 )[0];  
if ( jQuery( '#' + wrapperID ).hasClass( 'jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded' ) ) {  
found = true;  
break;  
}  
}  
if ( ! found ) {  
setTimeout( JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler, 500 );  
return;  
}  
} else if ( jQuery( 'div.jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded' ).length > 0 ) {  
// Grab any unloaded widgets for a batch request  
JetpackLikesBatchHandler();

// Get the next unloaded widget  
wrapperID = jQuery( 'div.jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded' ).first()[0].id;  
if ( ! wrapperID ) {  
// Everything is currently loaded  
setTimeout( JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler, 500 );  
return;  
}  
}

if ( 'undefined' === typeof wrapperID ) {  
setTimeout( JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler, 500 );  
return;  
}

var $wrapper = jQuery( '#' + wrapperID );  
$wrapper.find( 'iframe' ).remove();

if ( $wrapper.hasClass( 'slim-likes-widget' ) ) {  
$wrapper.find( '.post-likes-widget-placeholder' ).after( "<iframe class='post-likes-widget jetpack-likes-widget' name='" + $wrapper.data( 'name' ) + "' height='22px' width='68px' frameBorder='0' scrolling='no' src='" + $wrapper.data( 'src' ) + "'></iframe>" );  
} else {  
$wrapper.find( '.post-likes-widget-placeholder' ).after( "<iframe class='post-likes-widget jetpack-likes-widget' name='" + $wrapper.data( 'name' ) + "' height='55px' width='100%' frameBorder='0' src='" + $wrapper.data( 'src' ) + "'></iframe>" );  
}

$wrapper.removeClass( 'jetpack-likes-widget-unloaded' ).addClass( 'jetpack-likes-widget-loading' );

$wrapper.find( 'iframe' ).load( function( e ) {  
var $iframe = jQuery( e.target );  
$wrapper.removeClass( 'jetpack-likes-widget-loading' ).addClass( 'jetpack-likes-widget-loaded' );

JetpackLikespostMessage( { event: 'loadLikeWidget', name: $iframe.attr( 'name' ), width: $iframe.width() }, window.frames[ 'likes-master' ] );

if ( $wrapper.hasClass( 'slim-likes-widget' ) ) {  
$wrapper.find( 'iframe' ).Jetpack( 'resizeable' );  
}  
});  
setTimeout( JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler, 250 );  
}  
JetpackLikesWidgetQueueHandler();  
//]]>

 

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var JetpackEmojiSettings = {"base_url":"https:\/\/s0.wp.com\/wp-content\/mu-plugins\/emoji\/twemoji\/"};  
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if ( window.external &&'msIsSiteMode' in window.external) {  
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jl.type='text/javascript';  
jl.async=true;  
jl.src='/wp-content/plugins/ie-sitemode/custom-jumplist.php';  
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s.parentNode.insertBefore(jl, s);  
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var skimlinks_pub_id = "725X584219"  
var skimlinks_sitename = "jenniferoksana.wordpress.com";

 

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_stq.push([ 'clickTrackerInit', '4264964', '1194' ]);

if ( 'object' === typeof wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info ) {

wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.init();  
var mobileStatsQueryString = "";

if( false !== wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.matchedPlatformName )  
mobileStatsQueryString += "&x_" + 'mobile_platforms' + '=' + wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.matchedPlatformName;

if( false !== wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.matchedUserAgentName )  
mobileStatsQueryString += "&x_" + 'mobile_devices' + '=' + wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.matchedUserAgentName;

if( wpcom_mobile_user_agent_info.isIPad() )  
mobileStatsQueryString += "&x_" + 'ipad_views' + '=' + 'views';

if( "" != mobileStatsQueryString ) {  
new Image().src = document.location.protocol + '//pixel.wp.com/g.gif?v=wpcom-no-pv' + mobileStatsQueryString + '&baba=' + Math.random();  
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}


End file.
